


we choose, who have none

by LilyGilt (Yirry)



Category: Beauty and the Beast (1991)
Genre: Defiance, F/M, Large Cock, Present Tense, Rape, Torture, Victim POV, non-sexual choking, rape as punishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 07:21:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11397774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yirry/pseuds/LilyGilt
Summary: She knows what will happens if she runs.She runs.





	we choose, who have none

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mornelithe_falconsbane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mornelithe_falconsbane/gifts).



She rises in the middle of the night, when Lumiere's flames are pinched out, when Cogsworth has run down and needs winding. She packs and dresses warmly and leaves as silently as she is able. She avoids as many of the furnishings as she can. She doesn't like to think about which of them will hold their peace, and which of them will run and tell the Beast...

It is snowing lightly. This time, perhaps the snow will cover her tracks, and cover the scent she trails behind her. 

This time. She tries not to think about the last time, as valiantly as she tries to keep her head up and push her way firmly through brambles and the dangling branches of trees. At first it's out of simple aversion, as it has been for the last two weeks. She cannot bear to think about it. But also, if she allows herself to think about what has already happened, perhaps she will give up, turn back, slip into the castle as if she never left.

But by the time the sun rises, it is too late to turn back. So she allows herself to think about it, perhaps as a goad. She allows herself to think about her heedless, fear-blind flight (and her eyes are grim now, gritty only with tiredness, and she ignores the tears that prick in them). She allows herself to think about the wolves that clrcled her, and the way that the Beast, for a moment, appeared to be salvation.

The wolves would have been kinder.

He had her in the snow, then. His paws pinned her at the shoulders, splaying her arms out as to make of her an icon of submission: her hands, soaked in snow, had been so cold by the end that she could have moved them more easily in iron chains. At the time the numbness seemed preferable, but it was her hands that hurt the longest. For the first week after, she could not so much as open a door.

He ripped his own breeches open to free his cock, but did not bother with the same for her: while she was still gasping from the shock of the cold, from the shock of being struck prone, he lunged down and his cock rammed up into her body, carrying cloth with it, adding to the atrocious, agonising bulk of the thing. The pain lifted her up and slammed her back into the ground. She was screaming.

He leaned over her and licked across her open mouth, slobbering a parody of a kiss from a too-wide jaw. She gasped and almost choked. Her screams guttered into whimpers, swallowed up by that cavernous mouth. Meanwhile, despite his heavy stillness there, the pain in her groin and abdomen was building from intolerable to _intolerable_ , every healthy nerve in her body dinning in sympathy with every nerve bruised or broken or destroyed.

He separated from her body roughly. The fabric of her own skirts, that he had stuffed into her like rags into a doll, remained. Barely thinking, she twisted and kicked her legs, frantic to remove the wadded insertion, reaching out with shaking, clumsy hands to pull her skirts out and away. Later, she imagined it as a parody of eagerness. He let her. Then he thrust into her again. Again.

So much pain, she thinks, should have blurred together. And indeed she is sure she does not remember each stab of invasion, each careless abrasion of the Beast's teeth (she thought he might forget any other aim, and bite into her as if she were no more than a ripe fruit, which, having plucked, he would eat the flesh of, and then throw away the red-dripping core). But she remembers as much pain as there is capacity in her mind to remember pain, and it is all terrible, and it all awaits her again when he catches up to her.

She has begun to allow herself to think that he will.

Her bravery has held up so far, but bravery did not save her before, and she is pitting it against a vast cold wilderness, with lead seeping into the clouds above, and she is injured and tired and she carries the knowledge of what will come.

Still, she surprises herself. When she hears the roar behind her, she runs. First it is terror and horror, but in the midst of the storm of that there is something brighter. She feels nothing so strong as hope, but perhaps something like pride, something like gratitude, that she can recognize herself in the woman who walked halting, harrowed after the Beast dragged her back.

She runs, or hopes she is running, in the direction of the cliffs.

But the Beast catches her before she knows if she has gone the right way.

A paw on her cloak, and hot breath, and she staggers. She stumbles towards a tree, wondering if she can break off a branch and stab - 

With a choking jerk, the world whirls. She is caught up and spun and the world goes dark, and it's only as her hands find purchase on cloth, and she manages to release some of the pressure on her throat, that she realizes what has happened. Her vision hasn't gone dark from lack of air. The Beast has picked her up by the end of her cloak, bundled her up in it, and is carrying her in it like a sack.

Like the snow on her hands when he raped her before, it is an incidental thing that is almost, at first, a relief. Through the long journey home she never quite gets enough air, but she is warm. She is jolted carelessly against the Beast's side and back, but she is not walking. They are small mercies, but she tries to hold on to them. Her grip is faltering.

When he sets her on a hard surface, she does not try to struggle free. It will only bare her to him. She is so tired that she could almost sleep there where she has been lain, although she thinks there is stone below her, and her cloak is a poor mattress. 

After a moment, she feels his claws catch at the fabric and tear it. Her heart sinks. She needs this cloak. She has found very little clothing in the castle that is suitable for long journeys in the cold. She can repair this cloak, but the sewing will invite suspicion. And it will take time.

But this is an absurd disappointment, only a distraction from the terror she cannot shut out.

The Beast turns her over when her cloak is torn to shreds. It is nothing but a jester's collar of fringes and scraps.

"You ran again," he says, quietly, as though pondering something that puzzles him.

Her reply is broken into coughs. "You - have no right - to keep me here."

He dismisses this. "You offered your captivity," he says implacably, "and then you ran. And then I punished you, and still you ran."

He runs his naked claw down her face, tilts up her chin to expose the welts on her neck to the castle drafts.

"Do you want to be punished?" She isn't sure if it's a growl or a purr.

"No!" For all that her throat aches and she cannot truly shout it, she spits rage at him with that word.

He laughs. "It doesn't matter. You ran. And I enjoy punishing you."

He begins to pull her legs open. A jolt of panic goes through her, so intense that it is a cramp, is indistinguishable from pain. 

She rolls over, tries to draw her legs up. He yanks at her - one paw around both ankles - to spread her legs again. But he does not force her to face him.

It's only when she feels the head of his cock press at her rectum that she understands this is no reprieve.

"No!" she says again, for all the good it will do her.

Surprisingly, he pauses. Then he says - no, _asks_ , "Shall I fuck you here? Or shall I fuck you in your cunt again? I will be no gentler."

Another cramp.

She has heard rumours. She has read widely, including many books that are not considered suitable for young ladies. She knows that men - and women - fuck this way, but she has never heard it is as easy or natural for a cock to penetrate an asshole as for a cock to penetrate a cunt.

And yet. She has found the utter end of her courage, and it is this: she cannot _ask_ him to fuck her as he did before. She cannot beg for this, to be violated again where she has not yet fully healed. It will hurt more in the end, probably, certainly, but she cannot save herself this pain.

"Be... behind." She hates herself.

"Good," he says, and she hates him more, hates with the hatred of a throbbing wound, lashed anew. "For that I'll slick myself." 

Some unpleasant smell tints the air before she feels his cock nudge at her again. So hard - an iron rod coated in suede, the texture of flesh giving no more softness to the instrument than her cloak gave the stone floor.

He is slow, and she is whimpering when he is only an inch within her. Her ass burns with stretching, his cock scraping along her insides as though he is hollowing her out, carving her flesh towards her belly. She is wracked with nausea; she dry-heaves but has nothing to bring up. 

He gives a great sigh of satisfaction - and then begins to move faster, first further into her body (she had not thought that possible) then jerking out to flense her again. She whimpers and gasps at him, noises only audible because they are wrapped up in her ruined cloak with her. She imagines her blood streaming around his cock, as though he is not fucking her but milking her of blood.

It is so much pain.

When he pulls out, she hopelessly scrabbles away; one paw brings her back. "You offered this," he growls at her. She's crying, now, her nose running, breathing wetly into the scraps of her own clothes.

Impossible choices. Her father's life for her imprisonment. One rape for another. To stay, or to run. These are not choices: they are a trap, offering only a parody of will. But he will have won when he has taught her not to choose at all.

As he fucks her, each thrust an independent act of torture, she tries not to think that this is a forlorn defiance, and that he has already won in every way that matters.

**Author's Note:**

> title from _The Last Unicorn_ : 'Who has choices need not choose / We must, who have none.'


End file.
